


Antegenesis and Gravitational Singularity

by PanDemonicPanDemonium



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Against all odds, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has PTSD (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is not impregnated, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Blood, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley was not Raphael, Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Dark Crowley (Good Omens), Dead Body, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Gore, Graphic descriptions of violence, Happy Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Lactation, Love Story, M/M, Naga Crowley (Good Omens), No MCD, OC deaths, Other, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Questioning the reliability of a survivor’s testimony, SERIOUSLY READ THESE TAGS PROPERLY FOLKS, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Slavery, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), borderline gaslighting, both pre and post canon, description of fatal injury, dubcon non penetrative act, dubcon touching of breasts, impregnated angels (not with babies), non extreme torture, noncon only between OCs, possible dubcon, some mental torture, some physical torture not explicit, traumatised angels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29505660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanDemonicPanDemonium/pseuds/PanDemonicPanDemonium
Summary: READ THE TAGS FIRSTIn the time between the great Fall and Eden, the Great War between Heaven and Hell rages on, although Hell has an advantage that makes their victory inevitable. An angel and a demon are brought together by fate: prisoner and unwilling captor.Crawly re-learns what love is, and realizes that in order to protect Aziraphale he will need to betray Hell itself, even if it means losing status, titles, or possibly even his own life. Despite Aziraphale not wanting him to, Crawly devises a plan that will not only free Aziraphale, but forever change the direction of the Great War.Crawly finds that sometimes love means turning your back on both sides, and forming your own.Sometimes love means letting go.(Story is complete, uploading a new chapter every Wednesday. 51k words)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 43





	1. Prisoners

**Author's Note:**

> **GO BACK AND READ THOSE TAGS This fic not only contains a niche kink as a central theme, but also has some pretty heavy triggers to warn for, namely graphic descriptions of violence (brief, infrequent but intense, but NO MCD, only minor OC deaths), noncon (NOT between Aziraphale & Crawly, but other original characters suffer this fate.)**
> 
> **That said, there are some elements of non penetrative potential dubcon between them. This sexual contact is enjoyed by both parties, but there is a power imbalance between them, meaning that the recipient of the contact couldn't realistically object if he wanted to.**
> 
> ** Please exercise all due caution and look after your own mental health first and foremost. This is a love story, but it does have significant hurt and angst along the way, along with comfort. There IS a happy ending, even if it feels like there won’t be at times.  **
> 
> **At the beginning of each chapter will be a plot summary and any major trigger warnings for that specific chapter. If you’d rather not read those triggers in detail, skip to the end notes where there will be a non specific summary of events that transpired without triggering details, so you can safely skip a chapter and move ahead while still knowing the rough plot.**
> 
> **With much thanks to "Mysterious Partner In Crime" - an amazing beta reader, and they should take sole credit for the magnificent opening prose. They provided excellent narrative advice and tag wrangling suggestions.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crawly we know wasn’t always a nobody. Once a Prince of Hell, who resents the title foisted on him, he receives word from Lucifer that he is to be given charge of a prisoner, and use it to further Hell’s plans to ensure their dominance over Heaven. Unhappy with the extra responsibility, he is obliged to accept the gift. 
> 
> Aziraphale finds himself imprisoned in Hell, and witnesses other angels around him being subjected to horrendous things in an effort to break them to Hell’s will. Forbidden from talking, he is unable to find answers to the reason for what is being done, and must make his own deductions or wait to find out. 
> 
> He is given to Crawly, who surprises Aziraphale by his gentleness. Crawly seems fascinated by his new acquisition, but is hesitant for fear of scaring the angel. 
> 
> **Skip to END NOTES for full chapter summary if you want to skip detailed elements of this one**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: descriptions are not gratuitously graphic, but descriptions of non consensual touching of breasts, not too detailed descriptions of noncon sex on other angels, NOT Aziraphale. Descriptions of physical and mental torture (still not too graphic) Description of angel having to bear a non human monster and deliver it, forced lactation.

You know the story of Armageddon. It begins with In the Beginning; it ends with a nightingale in a garden. This isn't that story, that comes later.

This is Ante-Genesis. Before the Beginning. Creation had been paused when war broke out in Heaven. It continued to pause after the great Fall, for the rebellious former angels were not vanquished when they were cast out. There was no Earth yet - only the Void, dividing Heaven from the new-founded Hell, and from there, demonic forces launched invasion after invasion on the angelic stronghold.

This story takes place in this time before Time, which didn't exist with all its divisions - minutes, weeks, last Wednesdays, the day after tomorrows - until humans were created to experience and measure it. Supernatural beings do not exist in time the same way that humans do; they are not subject to its vagaries as we are. They have forever and never, an instant and Eternity. They  _ do  _ experience a sense of now, and before, and later, but their time is an elastic thing, which can squeeze human centuries into a day. 

In this shadowy, unmeasurable span of existence between the Fall and Eden, the battles raged on.

So it is here that we begin...

* * *

Crawly was covered in blood. Most of it wasn’t his. He slunk back to his pit, a black-walled rocky cave in the place they called Gehenna, or Hell. He unbuckled his bronze breastplate and greaves and set them aside. He had a short bronze sword which blazed with Hellfire when wielded, instead of Holy fire. He wiped the blood from it and set it on a cloth to sharpen later. He wore a black kilt edged in red and a hint of gold, and nothing more. His long red hair fell in curling cascades, tied up at the back in a ponytail out of the way, but matted with blood. 

He stepped into another part of his cave where water fell from a crack high up in the wall, draining away into a series of cracks in the floor. It was heated pleasantly as it trickled down through rocks permanently blazing with the fires of Hell. He stood under it and shook out his hair, rubbing the splashes of blood from the cloth of his kilt before they dried hard. 

He unwrapped the kilt and rubbed it a bit more under the water, then wrung it out and flung it aside. It fell on a hot rock and steamed gently as it dried. Crawly stepped completely under the falling water and washed his body and hair clean. 

Suitably cleansed, unlike many demons who preferred to wear the caked-on blood of their enemies as a badge of honor, Crawly slunk through to the main part of his cave and lay back on a soft pile of raw firmament that stood in for anything demons wished it to be. Sometimes they wove the firmament into clothing or tools, other times all you wanted was a soft amorphous blob to sprawl out on for a nap. 

There was a knock at the slab of wood-like firmament that he’d manifested into a door across the narrowest part of his crevice in the rock walls of Hell, to give him some privacy from the rest of it. He was privileged to be permitted a private abode. Most lesser demons simply shared space, or more often fought over preferred areas. 

“Yes?” He barked, annoyed. 

Another demon walked in. Neither was bothered by the fact that Crawly was naked. In these times, nakedness was usually the default unless you were fighting and wished to protect parts of your corporation. Some demons might sculpt random swathes of cloth to wear as robes if they felt like it, but most didn’t bother. 

“Prince Crawly, a letter from Lucifer for you.” The messenger handed over a baked clay tablet covered in incised marks. Crawly took it and flicked his hand at the courier to dismiss them while he read it. 

“Dear brother…” the letter began. Crawly snorted and curled his lip in distaste. He disliked the affectation. It was neither accurate nor wanted. Brothers only in name, only because Crawly had been standing alongside the Morningstar when they both Fell. Because of how powerful Crawly had been in Heaven, Lucifer wanted to keep him close, to hold him up as some kind of paragon of power to the other demons, and had thus installed him as a close confidant in his inner circle. No doubt Lucifer felt that Crawly’s old angelic power might be useful to him in some way in the future, and wanted to keep his favorite secret weapon close. 

Crawly did not care for the puerile fawning treatment, uttered with false friendship in mind. He knew he was being used - a handy tool and nothing more. He did what he was told, he was granted favor above most other demons. It suited him for now to go along with it. 

“... We still need to produce more imps and lesser demons to replace the troops we lose with every battle. It is every high ranking demon’s duty to aid in this endeavor by breeding the captives we take. It has been noted that thus far, our most powerful and esteemed commander has not taken advantage of the privilege afforded him. We are keen that your bloodline should be propagated to create more strong warriors to join our cause and overthrow the Heavenly hosts once and for all.”

Crawly cursed and growled in irritation. He had no desire to take part in their disgusting breeding program. He never wanted to be here at all. He read on, the claws of one hand slowly sinking their way into the solid rock of the floor next to where he sat as his anger grew. 

Lucifer had been privy to certain knowledge before his Fall - about God’s plans for new creatures She intended to create. He’d learned of Her plan to make them self-replicating, and considered how this could be applied to creating more troops for Hell. He’d granted the demons the knowledge of genitalia and allowed them to experiment, but to no avail. Demons had discovered a new sensation - lust - but slaking it with each other had led to nothing other than some extra claw and bite marks here and there.

It was only with the capture of angels to test things on that they had their answer. If the captives were likewise manipulated to create genitalia, then demons became able to use them to create more of the same. Other interesting facts became apparent with further experimentation, and thus the drive to capture as many as possible had become a priority. 

Crawly turned the tablet over to finish reading.

“... With this in mind, we would like to extend our congratulations on your place in our recent victory, that saw over five hundred new angels added to the ranks of our livestock colony. In recognition of your part in the victory, you are being gifted a prime angel to use to contribute to the cause. It will be your sole responsibility - ensure it’s output is maintained, share it if you wish, or keep it for yourself. Report to the breeding and training sheds at your earliest convenience to collect it.”

Crawly’s growl rose sharply into a furious scream and he threw the clay tablet at the wall, smashing it into shards. 

* * *

Aziraphale was huddled on the ground, mired in filth and grime. You couldn’t even tell his hair was white under the dirt. He was naked, and his knee was still painful from the injury that had taken him down in the battle and allowed him to be captured. He was in a cage not big enough to stand, and hundreds more stretched off in all directions, each one containing another pitiful angel. The floorspace was enough to be up on all fours, or curled up on your side, but not enough to stretch out at all. Every muscle in his body ached. None of them could do any miracles down here; their powers were blocked from Heaven by the cursed ground.

There were groans of pain, but not a single spoken word. Demons stalked up and down, part of the “ongoing training” team. Any angel caught talking was jabbed with a red hot poker - each of them had at least one burn mark on them somewhere. Others had more. 

Aziraphale had been there a while. What terrified him, and those around him, even more, was a tactic he’d seen used on another angel in the next cage to him, apparently chosen at random for the special treatment to drive the point home. 

One demon had seemed less nasty than the others. He handled the selected angel more gently when transferring him, and seemed to ignore minor transgressions. Once he sat down next to Aziraphale’s neighbor’s cage, apparently for a rest, and started talking quietly to the neighbor. 

“What’s your name?” The demon murmured from the side of his mouth, pretending to ignore the angel. The angel remained huddled at the back of his cage, in terrified silence. 

“It’s ok, you can tell me,” the demon encouraged. The angel remained silent. After a while, the demon sighed and got up, then carried on his rounds. 

Later he did it again. It became a habit: every now and then he’d take a break near Aziraphale’s neighbor’s cage and talked to him gently, encouraging him to talk back in vain, then left. He never paid any attention to any other angels. 

After a while, Aziraphale’s neighbor finally spoke up. 

“Teriel,” he whispered. 

“Pardon?” The demon leaned closer. 

“My name… it’s Teriel.”

Quick as a flash, the demon opened the cage, dragged Teriel out, and pinned him to the floor, beating him over and over again. Other demons appeared as if from nowhere and joined in, taunting Teriel, kicking, scratching, stabbing him with multiple hot pokers as he cowered in the fetal position sobbing in pain. Finally they shoved him back in his cage again. The assembled demons stood and swept the other angels with a fierce gaze. 

“In case any of you forget…” the commanding officer stated. “No talking. Not ever.”

The caged angels stared in abject silence as the commander clapped the “nice” demon on his back in congratulations for their little duplicitous plan; then the demons left. 

The angels understood: trust no one, say nothing.

* * *

Once “broken” and obedient, the cowed angels were collared in Hell-bronze metal and led to the Sheds. Here they were chained by their collars in individual stalls, again with caging over the top to prevent them from standing, forcing them to remain on all fours. The cages were open at the back, and they were sometimes permitted to lie flat with their legs stretched out into the aisle, but then a demon would walk up the line and they had to get back on all fours again. Any who didn’t would get their legs whipped. 

Regardless of what, if any, effort the angels had manifested before, all of them were manipulated with demonic miracles to manifest a vulva and breasts. Imps working in the Sheds made constant rounds, administering a draught of herbs to each angel, depending on which intake they were in and how far along the process, and massaging their breasts at regular intervals to induce lactation. Aziraphale supposed the liquid must be distilled from some kind of Hell-plant.

Aziraphale had no idea why this was being done. He could see a few rows away angels from previous intakes who had been there longer, all now lactating and being milked regularly. The milk was put in huge clay amphorae and taken away. He couldn’t very well ask anyone, so it remained a mystery. 

While normally angels didn’t need to eat or drink, they all had a water trough running along the front of their stalls, presumably to ensure sufficient milk production. There was no option to escape the herbal drinks that were fed to them manually, presumably to encourage their corporations into lactating, as it was forced into their mouths via a nozzle and plunger arrangement. It was easier to swallow the bitter concoction than to struggle and risk a painful beating as a result. 

It wasn’t just the milking. Aziraphale watched in horror as demons came along the lines he could see ahead of him. They’d stop at a stall, lift the cage top, then grab the angel from behind. He wasn’t sure what they were doing, there were grunts and thrusting movements, the angel usually crying and seeming to be in pain, while the demon seemed to be enjoying themselves. Then they’d grunt out a bit more, stand, and leave again. 

The angels reacted differently. Some sobbed, some seemed to go into shock, shut down completely. Others, who had clearly been there longer, seemed to accept it with the dull blankness of acceptance of those already long past being broken by such things.

He lived in fear of when it might happen to him. So far it hadn’t. At least once a group of demons had walked along the lines, eyeing up the angels, and paused near Aziraphale’s stall. His stomach sank in terror, but an imp came up and directed the demons to the next line across. “Not this line, these are reserved. Numbers 465 to 565 are in the current batch - go over there to service them.”

On one occasion, he heard pained sounds, which soon turned to screams, as one of the other angels began to to writhe and shake and clench. After what felt like an eternity of shrieking, an eldritch abomination slithered out of the angel, a squirming, hissing, writhing slug, a thing born of nightmares, something Aziraphale had never seen before, could never have imagined. He realized, then, that this must have been the purpose of the penetrative torture, that this was a new form of genesis, a perversion of Genesis.

An imp scuttled across to investigate. The monstrous thing had immediately turned its razor sharp fangs to bite the angel that had labored to bear it. The imp hauled it away by its tail, pleased with its prize.

* * *

Aziraphale could hear demons approaching, talking between themselves. The cage lid of his enclosure was lifted, and an imp came to his head to unchain him from the water trough. His chain was yanked roughly and he hastily shuffled backwards into the aisle, keeping his eyes down and being as subservient as possible. 

“This one is yours, sir.”

“It’s filthy - don’t you ever wash them?”

“Only the udders at milking time. This one isn’t in full production yet, just starting to get milk coming in. You’ll need to keep milking it at regular intervals, or we can send an imp to take care of it for you when you’re busy.”

“Eh, I’ll tell you if I need help.” Aziraphale felt movement on the chain attached to his collar as it was passed from one demon to the other, and a light tug. “Come with me.” Aziraphale began to shuffle along on all fours and heard an exasperated sound from the demon. 

“Ugh, for fucks’ sake. Get up. You’re allowed to walk normally when you’re moving from one place to another.”

Aziraphale hesitated, wondering if it was a trap that’d get him punished, but a swift kick from an imp encouraged him to scramble to his feet for the first time in he didn’t even know how long. His entire body ached and burned with pain. His legs screamed in agony at the sudden unfamiliar change, and he leaned against the row of cages to try to get his balance. His new owner stood holding his chain, waiting for his charge to gain his feet properly. 

“You  _ can  _ walk, can’t you?” The demon sounded skeptical. He stepped closer and peered at Aziraphale, lifting his chin with one hand. Aziraphale allowed his head to be tipped up, but kept his eyes downcast, avoiding eye contact with his owner, and trying not to shake in terror. 

He could see a slender frame before him, all hard, lean angles and whipcord muscles. This one wasn’t naked. The demon was wearing a simple black kilt with subtle red stitched edging, and a line of gold thread; he’d seen some commanders wearing such in battle. He quailed. This was clearly a demon of some standing. He didn’t know what it meant that this senior demon was taking him away, that he wasn’t remaining in the Sheds with the other angels. 

“I asked you a question, Angel. Can you walk?”

Aziraphale nodded hesitantly. He hoped he could. He wanted to explain that he might not be very steady on his feet, he might be slow, he might stumble, but he daren’t voice any of those misgivings or plead clemency for his case - he knew that was forbidden. The demon seemed to accept it nonetheless. 

“Well come with me.”

* * *

Aziraphale stumbled after his captor through the twisting tunnels, then wider caverns with black basalt walls, and enormous open spaces, some of which seemed miles across, before they turned through narrower tunnels again. His feet hurt; the ground was rough in places and there were sharp shards of obsidian here and there that cut his feet more. He tried desperately not to fall, but he was exhausted and in pain. His muscles hadn’t had to stand and walk for so long that he struggled. He kept his eyes downcast, seeing only the feet and legs of his owner striding ahead of him, chain in hand.

He tripped. He fell. Aziraphale cried out in alarm and cowered, hands over his head, waiting for the beating. 

It didn’t come. 

“Get up.”

Aziraphale was confused. The demon repeated the order. 

“Get up.” There was a tug on his chain, but not the vicious yank he’d been expecting. Aziraphale scrambled to his feet hastily, anxious not to provoke the demon into anger. “Come on.” The demon turned and began walking again. Aziraphale followed. 

He sneaked glances at his captor. The demon was tall, with long locks of red hair falling in curls down his back. He was clad only in the black kilt, and walked with an easy saunter. Imps and other demons they approached stepped back respectfully to give them room, so clearly Aziraphale’s assumption that his owner was someone of importance was correct. 

Several demons cast lustful looks towards Aziraphale, but when one got a bit too close and leered at him, his owner snarled, baring fangs at the impudent creature, who rapidly backed down. 

“Get your own,” his owner growled, and tugged Aziraphale a little closer by his chain. As they walked he didn’t see many other angels. Only one or two in the distance, and indeed they were being permitted to walk on two legs for longer distance, but as soon as they stopped, the angels would drop to all fours and wait for instruction. 

His owner stopped, waved his hand in the air, and a bit of dark boarding in a crevice glowed red, then moved aside. Some kind of demonic lock, Aziraphale supposed. He was led into a small cave beyond, and the boarding door closed off the space again from the main caverns behind them. His owner stopped and turned to examine his new acquisition more thoroughly. A serpentine tongue flickered out between his lips briefly and the demon pulled a disgusted face. 

“Eugh, right, first things first, let’s get you cleaned up. In here…” The demon gave another light tug on his chain, and led Aziraphale into a slightly smaller cave off the main one, where water flowed from a crack high up in the wall. His captor pushed him towards it. “Get under the water.”

Aziraphale jumped and made a startled sound as his chain was dropped on the ground with a sharp clatter. He looked up and saw the demon removing his kilt and setting it aside, then reaching for a small amphora on the floor. He straightened up and turned to inspect his angel. Azirpahale hastily stepped under the water. Expecting it to be cold, he was pleasantly surprised to find it was warm. 

The red headed demon stepped closer, and Aziraphale froze in fear. The demon’s face was angular and hard-edged, with an aquiline nose and piercing golden eyes with slitted vertical pupils. Aziraphale realized he was looking his captor in the face and his terror amplified. He hastily dropped his head to look away from his owner’s gaze. His field of vision now took in the prodigious length of the demon’s cock, hanging flaccid between his legs, but intimidating even so. 

He startled when the demon reached out to touch his head, ruffling his matted hair under the running water. 

“Hmm.” The demon made a thoughtful sound, and slicked Azirpahale’s hair back, pushing his head up a little as he did so, making him look up again. “Needs more than water…” He pulled the cork from the small amphora and poured out a viscous green fluid into one hand. “Hold this,” he instructed, passing Aziraphale the amphora, then proceeded to rub the liquid into the angel’s hair. It began to lather up. The demon made a surprised noise. 

“Heh, you’re blonde under all that muck. Looking better already. Pour me out some more.” Aziraphale obediently tipped the amphora into his master’s cupped hands, and the demon went to work, spreading what was evidently some kind of soap over his shoulders and chest, massaging it into a thick lather. He worked his fingers under the Hell-bronze collar to dislodge the dirt there, and worked his way down Aziraphale’s body. 

“I’m Crawly, by the way.” The demon commented as he cleaned Aziraphale. “I’ll put my sigil on your collar so people know you’re mine.” His hands slid over the angel’s soft skin, down his arms, and his engorged breasts. “Oh, aren’t you a beautiful thing…” Crawly breathed reverently, squeezing gently at one of Aziraphale’s breasts. “So soft…” Soapy lather slicked the angel’s skin, and the demon’s hands slid over yielding flesh, a thumb brushing over a too-sensitive nipple, which hardened under the touch. The demon drew a sharp breath and his cock twitched slightly. Aziraphale stayed as still as he could, muscles tense, and his hands began to shake.

Crawly’s hand stilled, and he bit his lip, then took a half step back. “Shouldn’t get distracted,” he muttered, then moved around behind Aziraphale and began to briskly soap his back instead, movements far more workmanlike, more clinical. He worked the grime from Aziraphale’s skin, sinking to his knees to lather up the angel’s thighs, hands slowing slightly at the soft flesh, then remembering himself and speeding up again, sliding down his calves to his feet. 

“Lift,” came the instruction. Aziraphale put one hand out to the rock wall for support and obediently lifted the foot. Crawly rubbed the lather in between his toes and rubbed the soles with firm knuckle pressure in a pleasant massaging motion, allowed the water to rinse the suds off, then repeated with the other foot. 

He stood up, looking awkward and Aziraphale could see the demon’s cock was at half mast, and tried not to tremble at what must be coming next. Crawly hesitated, then took the amphora from the angel’s shaking hands. “Hold out your hands,” he instructed. Aziraphale complied, and Crawly poured a little more of the soap mixture into his cupped hands. “Now wash… yourself.” Crawly instructed, nodding downwards. When Aziraphale hesitated, he said a bit more firmly, “that was an order.”

Aziraphale swallowed and closed his eyes, then slid his hand down between his legs to wash there. The slick liquid made his fingers slide over the lips of his vulva, briefly brushing his clit. He didn’t want to linger, he could hear Crawly’s breaths, shorter and a little faster than before, he could feel the demon’s eyes on him. He let the water rinse him clean, then stood awaiting the next instruction.

“Open your eyes.”

Aziraphale did. Crawly’s face was flushed, lips slightly parted, and he was devouring the angel with his eyes, but holding back somehow. 

“Look at me.”

Aziraphale lifted his eyes to meet Crawly’s gaze - those amber serpent eyes had pupils slightly wider than earlier, and they were studying Aziraphale’s just as intently. 

“Blue…” Crawly murmured, leaning closer. “Or gray? Bluegray. Interesting.” He stepped back, and snapped some firmament into a large soft black cloth, which he held out. Aziraphale took this as his cue that he should step from under the water. He took the proffered cloth, and stopped himself from saying ‘thank you’, but only just. His lip twitched in a brief polite flash of a smile for an instant, unsure what the appropriate signal of appreciation should be. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful to the creature who held his life in his hands.

Crawly stepped under the water and quickly gave himself a rinse off, while Aziraphale dried himself then stood waiting awkwardly, wondering if he should be down on all fours again as he’d been trained, but decided to wait to do what he was told. Crawly took the cloth from him when he’d finished washing and dried himself too, then sauntered through to the other room again, indicating that Aziraphale should follow him. He did, chain dragging along the ground.

The demon lounged back on a large comfortable pile of softness - which for want of a better word, we shall describe as a large cushion, furniture not having been invented yet. He looked around, thinking. He tossed the cloth to Aziraphale. 

“Put that on the floor before you lie down, don’t want you getting dirty again.”

Aziraphale once again fought the urge to say thank you, and laid out the damp cloth neatly, then sat on it cross legged. Crawly picked up a clay tablet from a stack by the cushion and began to read, frowning. 

Aziraphale waited a little while, unsure what to do, before finally lying down, curling up, and letting exhaustion take him to a light, restless, but still nonetheless - sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story takes place after the fall, but before the world is created, during the Great War. Crawly has been given the title of “Prince” which he doesn’t want, he dislikes and distrusts Lucifer and the others, he knows they are using him and trying to keep him sweet with gifts and honors. He receives a letter telling him that he is being given an angel, and something about a “breeding program” to use captured angels to create more demons to help win the war. Crawly is angry about this and wants no part of it. Clothing is pretty optional for all, although they will sometimes miracle simple clothing (or armor) like kilts or robes if they feel like it - no one cares if they don’t.
> 
> We meet Aziraphale in a cage in “the Sheds.” All angels are manipulated to have breasts and a vulva. Demons feed them potions that cause them to begin lactating. Aziraphale does not know why. He sees other angels being (raped) by demons but doesn’t understand what is happening. It does not happen to him. Then he sees an angel birthing a terrifying creature (not a baby but a monstrosity that attempts to turn on the angel and attack it as soon as it’s out.) 
> 
> The angels are trained never to talk using both physical and mental tactics, to ensure they are too terrified to ever try to speak again. He witnesses when another angel is tricked into answering the question “what is your name?”, and is then beaten savagely. Angels are then kept in stalls, on their hands and knees, and milked regularly. 
> 
> He is given to a slim redheaded demon who takes him home. He seems begrudging about accepting an angel, but is unexpectedly kind. The demon says his name is Crawly. He gently washes off Aziraphale and takes a shine to him. He seems attracted, but does nothing about it.


	2. Learning and restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crawly awkwardly begin to get to know each other, and work out some kind of routine. Crawly becomes overwhelmed by his fascination with the beautiful angel in his home, but holds back from doing what Hell has instructed him to, instead taking matters into his own hands, much to Aziraphale’s surprise. 
> 
> He is called away to fight, Aziraphale explores his sparse surroundings, before Crawly returns from battle, bloodied and bruised. Aziraphale discovers what demons need angel’s milk for. Crawly again becomes aroused, but yet again holds back from interfering with Aziraphale.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: lactation, touching of breasts, masturbation  
>  **Skip to END NOTES for entire chapter summary without triggering detail**

Aziraphale was woken from his nap with a light tug on his chain and immediately curled up defensively. Crawly was standing over him, and looked down at his new acquisition curiously. He dropped the chain again and hunkered down to inspect the angel closer. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to wake you up, you didn’t do anything wrong.” He drew a breath as Aziraphale uncurled, still avoiding eye contact with the demon. “I have to, uh… milk you they said. It’s been a while since they last did it apparently, you getting sore?”

Aziraphale realized he was and nodded warily. He scrambled onto all fours and waited. Crawly stood and stepped out of sight for a few moments, then returned with a large bowl, which he placed on the floor underneath Aziraphale’s hanging breasts. He knelt down next to him awkwardly. 

“I have no fucking clue what I’m doing,” Crawly sighed. “They put on the tablets that I’m supposed to milk you, keep what I need and get the rest collected for processing, but not how to y’know… extract it in the first place. I probably should have asked them to show me.”

Aziraphale had no idea what to do, he couldn’t speak to explain. He also didn’t want one of the imps coming and manhandling him again. He leaned back on his thighs a little and reached one hand up to his right breast, kneading and squeezing a little to induce let-down until the milk began to flow, and aimed for the dish underneath him. Crawly sat back on the floor and watched, rapt. As the demon didn’t seem to mind Aziraphale taking matters into his own hands, he sat up a little more, tucked the bowl closer, and used his other hand as well on his left breast. It took a while, but gave him relief from the discomfort. His milk had only come in recently and he wasn’t producing much, but he’d heard the imps saying that his production should increase with demand the more often he was milked. 

He didn’t feel as adept as the service imps had been, but by the looks of it, he had produced a bit more than last time, guessing from what was in the bowl. Aziraphale glanced at his owner from the corner of his eye - the demon was sitting back on the floor next to him, knees raised and feet flat on the floor, but his arousal was clear between his legs. He was watching Aziraphale with a rapt, unblinking expression, but making no move to touch the angel. 

“Fuck…” Crawly’s voice was hushed and almost reverent as he watched. He shifted uncomfortably. As the milk stopped flowing, Aziraphale sat back and stared at his knees, still tense. He tensed even more when Crawly moved closer to him, feeling the demon’s breath hot on his shoulder for a moment. Crawly’s hand hovered in the air near his breast, then retreated and instead picked up the bowl. He stood smoothly and walked into the far corner where he retrieved a couple of larger clay amphorae. He divided the milk between them, not that there was enough to fill both yet. He corked them, then took the empty bowl into the smaller room to wash under the water stream there. He then filled it with clean water and brought it back and set it next to Aziraphale. 

One amphora he left in the corner, the other he took and set outside the door, sealing it with some demonic lock again afterwards, which flashed red across the door. Aziraphale looked questioningly at the bowl of water, and then dared to flick his questioning face up to his owner. Crawly looked puzzled right back at him.

“It’s to drink. They said you need to drink to help your milk production. I know it’s warm, leave it a bit and it’ll cool down.” Aziraphale nodded, and wondered if he was allowed to bring the bowl to his lips to drink like a cup, or if he was expected to be on all fours and drink it that way. He wished he could ask questions. He’d hedge his bets and wait until his master wasn’t looking, then try lifting it to his lips. Provided the water was drunk, hopefully the demon wouldn’t be too bothered over the how. 

“Shit, forgot your collar…” Crawly moved closer again and knelt down, taking Aziraphale’s collar in one hand and pulling him a bit closer. He used a claw to scrape something into the bare metal. Aziraphale had no way of knowing what it was as he couldn’t see, but presumably it was his owner’s mark. “Done,” the demon sat back and regarded his work. “Messy, but it’ll do.” His gaze slid away from the collar and over his angel’s body again and his cock, half mast again, twitched and grew harder still. “Fuck.” he intoned under his breath. He reached out and touched Aziraphale’s shoulder, lightly stroking down the soft skin with the back of his fingers. Aziraphale shivered and some strange sensation coiled deep in the pit of his belly. It wasn’t fear, it wasn’t revulsion. He didn’t know what it was, but part of him wanted the touch to continue. 

It didn’t. 

Crawly lifted his hand away, then abruptly got to his feet, making the angel flinch again automatically, then strode over to his cushion and flung himself back on it, glaring at the ceiling. His hand drifted to his crotch and he began to stroke his cock lightly, a deft touch, slow and steady, as he took deep breaths. Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he couldn’t help but watch. 

The demon’s cock was impressively sized, girthy and almost frighteningly long once it was fully erect, curving up over his hollow abdomen to his navel. Crawly adjusted his grip and rolled the foreskin up and down over the glistening head, slowly pumping his fist, hips twitching now and then. He closed those golden eyes and bit his lip, gradually increasing his pace. 

His other hand came down to roll his balls gently between finger and thumb, then tugged gently down as his right hand moved faster, a regular slapping sound, and soft grunts filled the room. The demon was grimacing now, his breaths coming in short puffs, muscles tightening up, quivering. 

Aziraphale was fascinated. He couldn’t look away. His vagina twitched strangely, a delicious internal shiver ran through his corporation, feeling all hot and liquid inside at the sight of the demon pleasuring himself so unabashedly before him. 

“Fuck… fuck… _angel_ …” Crawly whispered out. _“Fuck!”_ then he came explosively. His come spurted out over his hand and belly, up to his chest in glistening creamy white strings. He finally opened his eyes and looked down at himself. Crawly gave a half grin, and casually licked the come from his fingers. He finally spotted Aziraphale watching and grinned a little wider as he licked. 

“Enjoy the show?” Crawly swiped up a little more from his chest and licked it. “Tastes good. Didn’t to start with, pretty disgusting actually, but then I worked out I can miracle it to taste however I like, so now it’s not.”

He finished licking himself clean like a cat then sighed and lay back, utterly relaxed. “I’m having a nap. Don’t bother trying to escape, you can’t. Just rest and drink.” With that, Crawly closed his eyes and fell asleep. 

* * *

They were both woken some time later by a frantic banging on the door. Crawly jolted into wakefulness in full alert, Aziraphale woke in a panic, heart hammering in fear. 

“Prince Crawly! Call to arms, NOW!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, I'll be there in a moment.” Crawly looked disgruntled, but leapt to his feet and wrapped himself in his kilt, then began buckling on his greaves, sword and scabbard, then his Hell-bronze breastplate. He went to the corner where the amphora of milk was and hurriedly decanted the contents into a couple of gourd-like flasks which he hung from his belt. 

Crawly turned to Aziraphale as he tied his long red curls up with a strip of thong. “You’ll er… have to milk yourself again, use the bowl then pour it into the amphora, I’ll divide it up when I get back. If I don’t come back… well, one of the imps will no doubt come to fetch you at some point.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. He felt a hot flush of shame that his first concern had not been that his captor was heading out to possibly harm more angels, but that if he was killed himself, Aziraphale would be taken back to the Sheds. His position here already seemed so much better in comparison. 

Crawly rushed out of the door and there was a red flash as it sealed again behind him, leaving Aziraphale alone, scared and confused. 

He sat for a while before realizing that his breasts were uncomfortable, so he took the water bowl to empty it in the water room, then sat down in there and began massaging his breasts to induce let-down. 

He squeezed his fingers down around the areola, rolling the flesh between fingers and thumb until the first bead formed. Curious, now that he was alone with no one to see him or hurt him, he caught the droplet on his finger and licked it off. It tasted sweet and creamy - better than he’d expected. 

He tried to replicate the motion that the imps had used in the Sheds, hoping to do a better job than he had earlier. It was awkward and frustrating, but soon the milk was coming in delicate streams with each squeeze, trickling into the bowl. 

There seemed to be a little more than before, and he couldn’t resist taking another taste. It really was rather good. It felt strange to be drinking something he’d made himself, and he mustn’t take too much, in case it was noticed. He stopped himself after another sip, then brought the amphora through to carefully fill it. He placed the stopper in the jug and then licked the bowl clean, rinsed it in the water then re-filled it with water to drink later. 

This done, he felt confident enough to explore his surroundings a little more - sparse as they were. Black craggy basalt walls, warm to the touch, two rooms, such as they were - really just irregularly shaped caves. Light came from flickering torches which never seemed to burn out. The floor was level rock, also warm, as everything was, so he felt no chill from his nakedness. 

There was the main larger room, then the smaller one with the warm waterfall, which he had begun to think of as the washing room. There were a couple of small amphorae in there, presumably containing other cleansing agents. 

In the main room there were a couple of other odds and ends. The large soft cushion his master lay on, some stacks of clay tablets next to it, then some more jars, pots and amphorae in one corner. There was his cloth on the floor. There were some other pieces of armor which presumably Crawly didn’t always bother with or perhaps found too cumbersome, but no other weapons. Not that Aziraphale held any illusions about his chances of escaping Hell even if he had access to any weaponry. He’d be slaughtered as soon as he stepped out of the cave, if he even could get past the barrier, which he almost certainly couldn’t. 

The lack of accouterments wasn’t unusual even by Heavenly standards. There wasn’t much in the way of items that one would one day be associated with human activity - not for vanity, leisure or entertainment. Anything was functional and served a purpose. If it wasn’t required, it didn’t exist. If it was required, it was called into existence by miracle and banished again when no longer needed. He supposed that not many demons had the privilege of their own private quarters, at least from the little he’d glimpsed passing through Hell.

There wasn’t anything Aziraphale needed right now per se, which was just as well, as he couldn’t miracle anything up down here anyway, but he was bored. There had never been time to be bored in Heaven. They were kept busy drilling with their flaming swords, formation flying, and patrolling. Free time was unfamiliar to him, but he’d grown used to the silence and isolation during his time in the cages and the Sheds, forbidden from communicating with his fellow angels around him. 

He reached out to poke at the cushion tentatively. It was as soft as a cloud. He was afraid to lie on it however, lest his owner notice the changed shape on his return. Aziraphale’s paranoia was fed by his trauma and the very real fear that everything placed before him was some kind of trap to catch him out for further punishment. 

He turned his attention to the stacks of clay tablets next to the cushion. The text seemed similar in form to angelic texts, having stemmed from the same knowledge. There wasn’t much of interest to him. There were instructions on tasks expected of Crawly, tedious reports, but nothing that could be of any use or interest to Aziraphale. 

There was, however, a lump of soft clay next to the stack, presumably for composing replies, and some styluses. As the finished tablets were baked, he presumed that the demons must harden them with summoned fire to finish them before despatching them where they needed to go. 

There was nothing to stop him from perhaps writing some things on a flattened lump of clay himself if he wanted. He could easily squash the soft lump back into nothing afterwards. But then what would be the point? What would he write and for what purpose? Then the risk of his master returning at any moment and catching him in the act. Aziraphale had been poking at the clay thoughtfully, but the last thought made him snatch his hand back as if it had been burned. 

He moved back to his cloth on the floor and lay back, grateful that now he had room to stretch out as he pleased, to stand or lie down, to move about - something he had taken for granted that had been denied him for so long in the cages and stalls. 

On that train of thought he began to worry - what if his master decided to build him a fresh cage within the cave? Perhaps he should make the most of his freedom should it prove to be short-lived. Aziraphale got to his feet again and stretched, then began to pace the small area, determined to exercise his body as much as he could in case he didn’t get a chance to do so again later. 

* * *

An indeterminable time later, Aziraphale heard movement outside. Crawly had been gone long enough that he’d milked himself two more times and filled an entire amphora. He’d alternated exercise with rest, as his under-used muscles grew accustomed to freedom of movement again after his long confinement in the cages. He worried that he might have overdone it, and his muscles were getting sore, so he was already on his cloth on the floor when Crawly came through the door. 

The demon was filthy and blood streaked. There was a jarringly bright scratch right across his breastplate where shiny fresh metal had been exposed by a sword cut, marring the slight patina of the rest of the armor. At the bottom edge, a continuation of the cut had bitten into his flesh, and the wound was clotted with blood. More cuts were scattered on his arm and calf, of varying size. 

Crawly stomped through to the washing room, unbuckling his armor as he went and casting it aside. Aziraphale remained where he was and watched discreetly through the open archway in the rock between the two rooms. His master stepped under the falling water with a slight hiss of pain as the water ran over his injuries, allowing it to wet his blood-matted hair and flow over his body. 

He looked down and began to rub his soiled kilt against his thighs in the water to dislodge the worst of the muck, then removed it and rubbed it a bit more under the water in his hands, then wrung it out and tossed it aside to dry on a warm rock. 

Turning around he fetched a small bottle and dispensed some bluish colored liquid into his hand, using it to cleanse his body and the wounds, making them bleed afresh. 

“You! Angel,” Crawly barked suddenly, making Aziraphale flinch. “Bring me some milk.”

Aziraphale hurried to obey, again unsure if he should be on all fours or not, but the order seemed to call for expediency, so he went on two legs to fetch the full amphora and take it into the washing room for his master, then dropped to his knees to offer it up, averting his eyes submissively. 

“Thanks,” Crawly commented, taking the jug from his hands. The word surprised Aziraphale, he’d never heard any demon express gratitude to an angel of all things. They barked orders, but were never grateful. Perhaps it was an automatic thing and his master hadn’t even noticed who he was addressing. 

Aziraphale remained kneeling at his master’s feet awaiting his next order. Crawly removed the stopper and handed it down to the angel for him to hold, then lifted the jar to drink directly from it. He then stepped more fully out of the water stream and slid down with his back against the rock wall until he was sitting on the floor, and inspected the freely bleeding wounds on his body. 

“Glad to see you’ve been able to produce a fair amount while I was gone, I ran out while I was up there,” Crawly remarked, then poured out a little of the angel’s milk into one hand, and proceeded to trickle it over an open cut on his thigh. The bleeding stopped almost immediately, much to Aziraphale’s surprise. He poured out a little more and rubbed it into the incision, and it began to visibly heal up and scab over before his eyes. 

Aziraphale realized his jaw was hanging open only when his owner remarked on it. 

“You can shut your mouth, you know,” Crawly chuckled. “What? You didn’t know what we use this for? Angel milk heals demons - inside or out, it strengthens us, makes us able to fight better and longer, then fixes us when we get hit. I get to keep as much of yours as I need, then the rest gets taken to central processing to be distributed amongst the troops with all the stuff from the Sheds.”

He carried on treating his wounds, then turned around and craned his neck, reaching around to his back trying to locate something bothering him there. He looked over his shoulder at Aziraphale. “Hey, can you see a cut back there?”

Azirpahale hesitated, unsure if nodding would constitute forbidden communication or not. Everything felt like a trap. Would he be in trouble for responding, or for not responding? He froze in uncertainty. 

“I asked you a question, Angel. Can you see an injury on my back?”

Aziraphale dropped his eyes and nodded. 

“Well make yourself fucking useful then,” Crawly shoved the almost empty amphora into the angel’s hands. “Rub some of this on, will you?”

Aziraphale took the jug with trembling hands and poured out a little into his palm, then reached forward hesitantly to touch his master. He gently rubbed a little of his own milk into the biggest injury there and watched the blood stop flowing. There was another, smaller one near it. He paused, then took the initiative and poured out a little more milk to use on that one as well. Crawly visibly relaxed under his touch, and he heaved a big sigh, leaning into the contact slightly. 

“All done?” He looked over his shoulder at his angel. Aziraphale nodded silently. “Then pass me the jug back.” He hefted it and frowned. “Barely any left.” He upended the jug to drink the dregs then set it aside and heaved another big sigh, tipping his head back against the wall. “Thanks, Angel. Feel better now.”

He opened one golden eye and peered at Aziraphale, gaze sliding down to his full breasts. “How close are you to being able to express some more?”

Aziraphale shrugged, looking down at his chest in embarrassment. He wasn’t sure. He’d only been milked on a schedule so far really and wasn’t sure how it worked in between times, if his body would just step up and create it when stimulated, or how much. Crawly snapped his fingers to summon a fresh bowl. 

“Keep the other one for your water, we’ll use this one for milking. Get started, see what you can get while I wash out the jug.” 

Aziraphale began to massage at his breasts, hoping something would happen, and afraid of his master’s reaction if it was nothing. He was so distracted with the task at hand, that at first he didn’t notice the intense stillness of the demon, until he glanced up and saw Crawly watching him intently, lips gently parted and face flushed, pupils widening in desire. Aziraphale faltered, eyes wide in fear, and his hand stilled. 

Crawly inched closer, his focus intense and intimidating. “Show me what to do,” he murmured. His voice was pitched low and slightly husky, and something inside Aziraphale squirmed with a glimmer of strange desire at the sound, deep, deep, down inside.

Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond. Flustered, he looked down, and began moving his hands again, focussing only on one breast this time, in repetitive rolling motions towards his nipple, until a small creamy white bead formed at the tip. Crawly’s hand came out to cover his own, and squeezed down over Aziraphale’s hand, pulling down and turning the bead into a drip which dribbled down the swell of his breast in a white runnel. He swiped it up with a finger, and licked it off with relish. 

The demon reached out again and nudged Aziraphale’s hands out of the way, repeating the squeezing rolling motion towards the areola, his hands strong but gentle, too gentle at first. Aziraphale nervously hovered his own hand over the demon’s, then carefully laid it over and applied a little more pressure to let Crawly know he could be a little firmer. 

Crawly didn’t seem to mind the guidance, and managed to express another trickle of creamy white milk, allowing it to drip down into the bowl below. Finding the angle awkward though, he adjusted his position, moving behind Aziraphale and reaching around from behind, then using both hands, one on each breast. Aziraphale held still, heart still hammering in his chest, surely the demon could feel his pulse throbbing so strongly against his skin? He could feel Crawly’s chest pressed to his back, and allowed himself to lean back into the contact ever so slightly. Crawly’s arms were warm and comforting wrapped around his chest, and his touch surprisingly gentle. He could feel the demon’s breath hot and fevered against the skin of his neck and shoulder. 

They knelt on the floor, pressed together, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to think, or why his emotions were so confused over the contact. He should have felt afraid, but instead he felt somehow reassured and comforted by the embrace. Crawly’s technique was improving with repetition, and he’d got into a rhythm, sending thin streams of milk squirting into the bowl. 

After a while, the flow began to slacken off - there wasn’t as much as before, but then it hadn’t been as long since Aziraphale last expressed any milk. He was relieved there had been any at all, but Crawly seemed pleased with the result. He squeezed the last drips from Aziraphale’s nipples, smearing the liquid over his fingers. 

He lifted one hand to his lips to lick the droplets off with a low moan of satisfaction. 

“Want to taste, Angel?” he murmured into Aziraphale’s ear, and brought his other hand up in front of his mouth. “Try it,” he whispered, temptation oozing through his words. Aziraphale opened his mouth and Crawly placed a finger between his lips, other arm still wrapped around him. 

As Aziraphale licked the sweet milk from Crawly’s fingers, he became aware of the hardness of the demon’s cock pressing against his lower back, he could feel Crawly’s heart thudding rapidly against his narrow ribcage pressed against Aziraphale’s own, feel the heat of him and his excited breaths. 

Crawly dipped his head to nuzzle into the skin where Aziraphale’s shoulder met his neck below his collar, breathing hot against him, then allowed his lips to brush against his soft flesh, just a light kiss, followed by a slow lick, then a firmer kiss, and a gentle bite. Not enough to break the skin, not even close, just a careful squeeze of teeth into muscle, with an earthy possessive groan. Crawly pressed himself tighter against the angel, grinding ever so slightly with his hips, and gripping him harder with one arm, the fingers of his other hand still hooked in the angel’s mouth. Aziraphale sucked on them greedily, despite any traces of milk having been long licked clean from them. 

“Fuck… fuck… no. _Fuck_ you’re beautiful… can’t… fuck.” Crawly was muttering against his skin, conflicted, then withdrew his fingers from Aziraphale’s mouth, and reluctantly pulled back. “Decant the bowl,” he rasped, then snapped up a cloth to dry himself and stalked back into the main room, flung himself on the cushion, and glared at the ceiling again. 

His hand was immediately on his cock, tugging at it in desperate strokes. Aziraphale stared again, captivated, then, worried he’d get into trouble for not following orders, poured the milk into the clean amphora. He wiped his chest down, cleaned the bowl and set it upside down to dry, then carried the stoppered amphora through and set it against the wall with the others, then returned to his cloth on the floor. He glanced up and noticed that his master was following his every movement with his eyes, biting his lip as he did, hand pumping rapidly, then his eyes slammed shut, his back arched, and he came with a harsh gasping cry, spurting come over his body again. 

Crawly drew a long, shuddering breath as he relaxed down again, then stretched languorously and began to lick his hand and fingers clean, cat-like. Aziraphale watched, mesmerized, wondering what he tasted like. Crawly opened his eyes and met the angel’s gaze, holding eye contact as he licked, agonizingly slow, then, cleaned to his satisfaction, he stretched again and lay back, closing his eyes once more. “Get some rest, Angel. If you need to express some milk before I wake up you know what to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wakes, and finds Crawly continues to be kind to him, which he finds unusual. Crawly awkwardly states that he’s been instructed to carry on milking Aziraphale, but doesn’t explain why. He doesn’t know how, so Aziraphale shows him by doing it himself. Crawly doesn’t touch him, but does become aroused. He stores the milk in clay amphorae - one for inside, the other is left outside to be taken away. 
> 
> He puts his ownership mark on Aziraphale’s collar and touches his shoulder, becoming aroused again, but then backs away, and masturbates instead, while Aziraphale watches, fascinated. He sleeps, then on waking is called to do battle and leaves.
> 
> Aziraphale takes care of his own milking in his owner’s absence, and explores his sparse surroundings, such as a large cushion to rest on, clay tablets, soft clay to compose replies, styluses, and the amphorae and bowls but nothing much else. Furniture has not yet been invented so possessions are sparse. 
> 
> Crawly returns, injured from battle, and washes. He asks Aziraphale to bring him some of the angel milk in the amphora, drinks some, and then pours some on his injuries which instantly heal up - he explains that this is what demons use angel milk for - it makes them almost undefeatable in battle, making them stronger, and healing them up after injury. He keeps half of what Aziraphale produces for himself, and the rest is taken for other demons to use. Aziraphale helps him administer it to injuries that Crawly can’t easily reach. 
> 
> Crawly asks to be shown how to milk him, and Aziraphale allows Crawly to touch his breasts and learn. Aziraphale finds the contact enjoyable and is confused by his feelings. Crawly becomes aroused again, but again he tears himself away and masturbates instead. Aziraphale still finds this fascinating.


	3. Protectiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawly has a visitor, who takes a little too much interest in Aziraphale. Crawly is territorial and possessive over what’s his, and makes sure that his visitor knows. Aziraphale is surprised by the strength of his owner’s reaction. Crawly’s gentleness towards him goes against everything he has experienced thus far in Hell. 
> 
> Crawly is finding some new emotions surfacing that he’s not used to. Crawly learns how to deal with Aziraphale’s needs, and again becomes aroused, but still doesn’t take things as far as Aziraphale expects. Crawly nonetheless feels bad for his loss of control, fearful that he’s upset his angel. 
> 
> Aziraphale is feeling some unusual emotions due to the affection he’s receiving, and some kind of mutual connection is made which surprises them both.
> 
> We learn more about Crawly’s role in Hell and the Great War, Hell’s plans to use him for their gain, and how Crawly feels about all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: dubcon non penetrative sexual act  
> Skip to END NOTES for entire chapter summary without triggering detail

Aziraphale drank, and wondered if he should stretch his legs and walk around a bit more while his master rested, but then remembered his last instruction had been “get some rest.” Perhaps Crawly would be angry if he woke to find his slave not following orders. He lay down on his cloth and curled up, able at last to get some restful sleep that wasn’t so riddled with anxiety for once. 

He woke refreshed, his breasts achingly full. His first concern was to glance up at his master where he lay on his cushion, still asleep. Mindful of his orders, he stood quietly and fetched the milking bowl. Setting it on the floor, Aziraphale positioned himself over the bowl and began to massage his heavy breasts, relaxing into the rhythm as his milk finally let down and began to flow. 

As the milk supply slackened off, Aziraphale was pleased to see the bowl was fuller this time. He carefully carried it over to the amphorae in the corner and decanted it into one, corked it, and then took the bowl to wash it out again. Feeling the warm water on his hands, Aziraphale decided to have another wash - the water was soothing on his sore muscles, which were now aching with the sudden increase in activity from his pacing about after so long immobile. 

He didn’t dare use any of the cleansing agents, as he hadn’t been given permission and they might be valuable. But just the water on its own was all he needed. Aziraphale took a deep breath and relaxed, sitting down under the falling water, back to the wall, he tipped his head back and let the water flow over him, ran his hands through his hair then down his face. 

He stayed there for a while, leaning forward now and then to glimpse Crawly still sleeping on his cushion in the other room. Aziraphale would quite happily stay here in the soothing water, but his skin was beginning to wrinkle, so he reluctantly made his way back to his spot, and picked up the cloth, shook it out then dried himself off again. 

He was startled by a knock on the door, and clutched the cloth to his chest protectively. Crawly woke with a start. “Who is it?”

“Garthax.”

Crawly sighed and waved a hand at the door, it glowed red briefly. “Come in.” He glanced at Aziraphale, standing and clutching his cloth. Crawly flicked his eyes downwards in an unspoken instruction that the angel should get down on the floor again, and he hastily complied.

“Hey Crawly. Oh, you got your angel then. Bred it yet?”

Crawly snarled silently at the newcomer. “Mind your own business, what d’you want?”

"Lucifer gave you the ability, and he expects you to use it."

Garthax snapped up a cushion for himself, and Crawly visibly rankled at the impropriety, Garthax affected not to notice, sat down, and eyed up Aziraphale hungrily. “It looks nice - not filthy like the ones in the Sheds the rest of us have to share, you lucky bastard. Can I have a go?”

“No. Get to the fucking point then piss off.”

Garthax smirked. “Dagon wants you to take control of the Hellhound regiment as well next time - you’ll get two hundred handlers and their hounds, in addition to your usual troop. She wanted me to come get your views on integrating the tactics with your squadrons, then you’re to come down and review the troops.”

“Why the Hellhounds? I was doing fine with the Hellfire blade squad, Ligur was in charge of Hellhounds.”

“Ligur got promoted in the field, so his old division’s been split between you and Beelzebub.”

“Fine. When do I have to go talk to them?”

“Now.”

Crawly grunted in assent and stood, going to fetch his kilt. Garthax stood and sauntered over to Aziraphale, looking down at him and leering greedily. He reached out and sank his fingers into Aziraphale’s soft white curls, gripping tightly and tipping his head back to study him better. “Hm. Pretty…” He didn’t get chance to say anything else. 

Crawly barrelled into Garthax in a hissing fury and slammed him to the ground, teeth bared and claws digging into the flesh of his shoulders. 

“You don’t EVER touch my fucking stuff, d’you hear me? That angel is MINE! The next time you touch him will be your last. I will rip the flesh from your bones and feed it to the Hellhounds then piss on your fucking corpse. Do you understand?”

“Y.. yes my Lord!” Garthax quailed before Crawly’s seething incandescent anger, all pretence at informality lost as he was forcibly reminded of his lowly position by a Prince of Hell. Crawly snarled in his face, then pushed himself up and off Garthax, the push sinking his claws in deeper briefly, and making the lesser demon cry out in pain. Crawly stood and stalked protectively over to Aziraphale glancing down to ensure his angel was unharmed. 

Garthax sat up slowly, rubbing at his shoulders where blood trickled down from the puncture wounds.

“Do… uh, do you have some angel milk I could use to…”

“NO.” Crawly snapped, “Get out.”

“Yes my lord.” Garthax scrambled to his feet and fled. 

Once the other demon had gone, Crawly remained standing next to Aziraphale for a moment, composing himself, and allowing his corporation to relax into a less Hellish form again. He reached out a hand, claws gone, and stroked the angel’s hair softly, putting his curls to rights. He studied Aziraphale silently for a few moments longer, then turned on his heel and marched out, leaving him alone. 

* * *

Aziraphale sat and pondered on his master’s reaction. Crawly hadn’t hurt him at all yet, every interaction had been patient and gentle. The demon was clearly aroused by him, and yet had drawn back each time and instead brought himself off by hand rather than exercising his right to take Aziraphale any way he wanted to. 

He had been putting the gentleness down to some kind of trick to make him slip up, but he couldn’t explain the reason why his owner, who was clearly supposed to ‘breed’ him, hadn’t yet done so, despite clearly wanting to. 

Aziraphale was even more surprised by the strength of Crawly’s reaction to the other demon wanting to touch his angel, and again by the tenderness with which his master had come to check he was alright afterwards. 

* * *

Crawly was gone a while - another milking session came and went, and Aziraphale finished filling the first amphora, and took the opportunity to exercise some more. His muscles were still aching, but he knew he needed to get them moving again in repeated short doses. His knee injury from before his capture wasn’t bothering him so much now and appeared to have mostly healed up, save for the odd twinge now and then. He supposed it was as good as it was going to get anyway. 

He was still pacing when he heard the door open, and froze, then dropped to all fours, waiting to see if he would be punished, but Crawly just walked in and sat down on his cushion. He reached out and stroked Aziraphale’s hair idly. 

“Well that was a thing,” he commented. “Hopefully it’ll work out ok. Won’t be so bad having more troops under my command, provided the damn generals can take direction.” He paused, noting Aziraphale was still tense, so immobile he might as well have been a table. “Hey,” he said gently. “Relax will you? Come closer.” 

Aziraphale shifted sideways, closer to the cushion, and Crawly smiled, continued stroking his soft hair, and down his back. “Yeah, that’s better. Sit down, chill out a bit…” He glanced at the second cushion that Garthax had created and left. “... In fact, drag that over here. You might as well use it. Put it next to mine.” Azirpahale moved over to drag the cushion closer, then climbed on, grateful for the softness compared to his cloth on the hard floor. 

Crawly resumed his soothing, repetitive stroking. “‘S not so bad y’know - having you here. I thought it’d be a right pain in the fucking arse having an angel to be responsible for, but it’s pretty damn relaxing. This better than the Sheds for you?”

Aziraphale nodded, and tried a fleeting smile that he hoped conveyed his gratitude. Crawly smiled back. “I won’t ever share you, don’t worry. You’re mine. No one gets to touch what’s mine.”

Having previously had little need for possessions, demons had discovered a natural affinity for possessiveness once faced with the opportunity. Crawly had started to feel territorial once he'd been granted his own cave, but he still didn't care about much else. But when he was given his own angel… well, his newfound lust stoked his dormant possessive streak into overdrive.

At first, the prospect of having an angel to care for had been an irritation. Especially as it was filthy and smelled to begin with. Something else to deal with along with all his other duties. At least until he’d seen him cleaned up. So soft and inviting. Something that came with the genitals and lust he’d been given access to awoke a primal urge to own and protect.

The new sensation of lust that Lucifer had unlocked for his demons had left Crawly confused. Self pleasure was fun once he got experimenting, but his rebellious streak meant he refused to visit the Sheds to do what Lucifer wanted him to.

But until he’d had his own, he hadn’t understood. Here was something worth having, worth fighting off other demons for. Sure, his angel was useful, but he was also pretty, and soft, and stirred up hot, urgent feelings inside him. Those clear blue-gray eyes were fascinating, and the blonde curls reminded him of clouds. When he glimpsed his angel looking unexpectedly relaxed and calm, particularly given that it was in his own demonic presence, he felt something more. This angel wasn’t _always_ afraid of him, as the rest were. It made Crawly want to make him smile more, relax more. He wanted his angel to feel good.

Crawly’s eyes roved over Aziraphale’s form lustfully, lingering on his breasts again, and a thought occurred to him. 

“Shit, need to leave a portion out for collection - did you express more while I was gone?”

Aziraphale nodded, and flicked his gaze toward the amphora in the corner.

“Good Angel. In future, split it between the two jugs, half in each.” Crawly stood and went to divide the milk, then took the surplus and placed it outside the door. He took a swallow of the remaining one and set it aside. “Tastes as sweet as you look, Angel,” he grinned, then plopped himself back down on the cushion and rested a hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. “Wake me when you need milking again. I want another go.”

* * *

Aziraphale was instantly comforted by the softness of his cushion, he hadn’t felt anything so comfortable since he left Heaven, and he snuggled into the cloth. Crawly’s hand was a warm, reassuring weight on his thigh. It should have felt possessive, but instead felt protective. He felt… valued, somehow. Wanted. In Heaven he was a thing. A warrior - a pawn on a board to be deployed at will to carry out a task and nothing more. Needed for a function, not wanted for who he was. Cherubim were nothing more than fighting machines made to destroy - created to quell the rebellion which still raged on. They were not encouraged to display individuality of self, or even of thought. They were to follow orders, nothing more. 

Then in the Sheds, it had been the same concept - a thing, a utility to be milked, and ultimately intended to be bred to create more soldiers. A mere item, a means to an end. In Aziraphale’s entire existence, no one had expressed any kind of affection for him or thought him worth protecting. No one had placed any value on him as a companion, only as a machine. 

And here was a demon of all things, telling him that his mere presence made him feel _good_ . Who thought of Aziraphale’s comfort, who asked him if his current experience was preferable to his previous one, as if that _mattered_ . Who was able to entertain the concept that Aziraphale was _entitled_ to hold an opinion on anything at all. Crawly didn’t seem to want to protect him because he was valuable - there were literally thousands of other captive angels who could replace him. There seemed to be another reason. 

Aziraphale let sleep take him once more. The most restful, comfortable sleep he’d ever had in his entire existence. 

* * *

When Aziraphale woke, he opened his eyes to see Crawly gazing softly at him, a faint smile on his lips. One hand stroked his erect cock in slow, lazy movements. His kilt was discarded on the floor.

“You’re pretty when you sleep,” Crawly murmured, reaching out one hand to stroke Aziraphale’s cheek. “And when you’re awake. You look so much more peaceful when you’re asleep though, no tension. ‘S relaxing.”

Unsure of what response was required, if any, Aziraphale remained still, and cast his eyes down, afraid to hold eye contact with his master. He heard a soft chuckle. 

“You’ve got beautiful eyes, y’know. I wish mine were like that.”

Aziraphale glanced up again, his expression of confused disbelief must have been plain. Crawly’s eyes were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, glowing gold and amber, and he wished he were allowed to tell him so. Their eyes met for a smidge longer than was comfortable, and he looked away again, blushing. Crawly stroked his hair gently. 

“You like mine?”

Aziraphale blushed deeper and nodded. 

“Huh.”

Aziraphale reached up to shift his right breast a bit, it was becoming uncomfortable, both were firm and full, ready for milking again. Crawly didn’t miss the movement. He sat up. “Get the bowl,” he instructed. 

Aziraphale stood to fetch it. It appeared that Crawly didn’t mind him not doing everything on all fours - it was hard to carry a bowl when not bipedal anyway. He took the initiative to bring a couple of amphorae over as well and set them nearby, and his cloth. Crawly smiled at his actions. 

“Good Angel,” he murmured, and stroked Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Is this easier with you kneeling or on all fours usually, anyway?”

In the Sheds, they’d remained on all fours while an imp sat next to them to milk them into a bowl. It was easier to aim that way than kneeling and bending over, at least when someone else was doing it, so by way of reply, Aziraphale placed the bowl and positioned himself over it on all fours then waited. His master had said he wanted to do it, so he would remain still rather than doing things himself. 

Crawly shifted off his cushion and knelt next to the angel, reaching underneath to massage his heavy pendulous breasts. He seemed to have a knack for it, and rolled the pliant flesh between his strong but gentle fingers, as Aziraphale relaxed into the contact with a soft sigh. Soon the first droplets beaded at his nipples, then began to drip and then two thin white streams began to hiss into the bowl below. The relief made him relax further and he closed his eyes contentedly. It felt good. 

The demon shifted uncomfortably after a while, having to bend over and reach underneath. He made a disgruntled noise. “Hold on, lemme try something else…” He let go and moved behind Aziraphale, hips pressing up against the angel’s soft arsecheeks, and Azirpahale couldn’t help but notice the firmness of Crawly’s erect cock nestling there. He wondered if this was it, and hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much. He’d heard the other angels screaming in pain at the treatment some demons had handed out to them while breeding them. 

But, aside from a shuddering breath at the contact, Crawly didn’t make any attempt to penetrate Aziraphale. Instead he leaned forward, resting his chest against Aziraphale’s back, then reached both hands under to take a breast in each one, and began to milk him like that. 

“This is far more comfortable,” Crawly murmured, lips close to Aziraphale’s ear. He rested his head forwards and breathed deep of the angel’s intoxicating scent, nosing into his smooth skin and nuzzling into his neck with a quiet murmur of appreciation, his hands not ceasing their repetitive movements. 

Aziraphale felt a strange quivering fluttering in his belly, feeling hot and shivery at such intimate contact. He felt safe somehow, surrounded by his demon, held against this hard, lean body, as if Crawly was covering him protectively, while touching him so tenderly. The demon’s flustered breaths in his ear made Azirpahale gasp out as well, then open mouthed kisses were being pressed to his skin, Crawly’s tongue flicked out to taste him, then he began to nip gently again at his neck and shoulder, uttering soft moans. 

Crawly’s hips twitched, and he began to rut slightly against the angel, stiff cock nudging between his arse cheeks slightly as his abdomen flexed, muscles rippling. He let out an earthy groan, and precome beaded up at the tip of his cock, then dribbled down, slicking the underside of his length where it slid against soft angel flesh. He began to shake, it was getting too much. 

Aziraphale’s milk flow was beginning to slacken off, and Crawly’s coordination had gone to shit anyway. His hips flexed against Aziraphale’s backside faster, and he began to grunt quietly. All of a sudden he froze up, then gave a long shaking shudder and an equally shaky groan. His cock twitched and spurted out a pulse of hot sticky come over Aziraphale’s back. 

“Fuck… fuck, Angel…” he held Aziraphale tight, the stickiness trapped between their bodies feeling strangely erotic. Crawly was breathing hard, clutching at Aziraphale’s breasts, and kissing his skin. “You’re utter fucking perfection.” He gave a final squeeze, then straightened up. “Leave the bowl for the moment, come with me, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He stood, and extended a hand down to Aziraphale to help him to his feet. Aziraphale took it awkwardly, noting Crawly’s cock now flagging and softening between his legs, dripping splashes of come on the floor from the tip, and Aziraphale could feel a coolness on his back and the rest of the demon’s spend sliding down his lower back. He expected to feel revulsion but he didn’t. He felt something he couldn’t put words to. He felt filthy, sure; but he felt conflicted about the fact that he _liked_ feeling filthy. 

Quite apart from the fact that Crawly had got so overwhelmed over him that he’d lost control, and yet still hadn’t gone so far as to fuck him properly, despite how easily he could have. But what had left Aziraphale most confused of all were the kisses. The praise, the gentleness. 

The kisses…

Crawly was still holding his hand.

The demon gave it a gentle tug, and a soft smile, and led Aziraphale into the washing room. 

Crawly glanced down in irritation at the clanking metal of Aziraphale’s dragging chain. “That’s going to get tiresome,” he muttered, then stepped forward and unhooked the chain from the collar, banishing it into the aether.

They stood under the warm water together, then Crawly picked up a small bottle and faced Aziraphale, he poured some of the cleansing agent into his hand, and rubbed it into his blonde curls, then allowed the suds to flow down over his shoulders and body. He set the bottle aside and used both hands to spread the lather over Aziraphale’s body, rubbing down his chest, and reaching around him to run his hands down his back, bringing their bodies close together, face to face, chest to chest.

His hands slid down to Aziraphale’s lower back, and to his buttocks, ensuring he was cleaned properly. Crawly was holding him in his arms, their skin slippery against each other. The demon was looking increasingly conflicted. Something was weighing on his mind. He bit his lip, and placed his lips close to his ear again. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, almost on the edge of hearing over the splashing water. “I shouldn’t have.” He rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, stopped rubbing the lather into him, and just held him, leaning slightly against him. “Angel…” he breathed. 

Aziraphale felt the thud of the demon’s heart against him, and cautiously lifted his own arms slightly, then tentatively wrapped them around that slim waist, holding him back in silence. He felt Crawly stiffen slightly, muscles tense for a moment, and was afraid. Afraid he’d overstepped, strange as that sounded under the circumstances, but Crawly sighed and relaxed into the embrace instead. 

They stood that way for a little while, then Crawly reluctantly eased off and stood straighter. Aziraphale immediately released his own hold and looked down at his feet. Then Crawly’s hand was under his chin, nudging it up to meet his gaze. He studied Aziraphale’s eyes for a long moment, seemingly unsure what to say, then sighed, and dropped his hand, then picked up the bottle again and finished washing himself down, while Aziraphale took his cue to finish rinsing himself off, and stood by patiently. 

Crawly snapped up a pair of large cloths, and wrapped one around Aziraphale, before setting about drying himself with the other. He flicked his head to indicate that the angel should follow him through to the larger room again. Aziraphale remembered the milk still in the bowl and hurried to decant it into the amphorae, then corked them and handed one to Crawly, to be put outside the door. The demon gave him a little smile and nod of thanks, and took it, while Aziraphale placed the other in the corner, then returned to his cushion as Crawly returned to his and laid back. The demon tipped his head sideways to gaze at him. 

“Would you rather milk yourself than me do it?” He asked, looking worried. 

Aziraphale shook his head before he realized he hadn’t even taken much time to think about it - his response was instinctive. He realized in that moment that his gut reaction was that he liked it. It felt intimate, but he felt cared for. He’d never experienced touch like it. 

Crawly looked mildly surprised, but shrugged and snapped to summon a comb, then set about combing through his long scarlet waves. His hair dried fairly quickly in the warm dry air of the cave. When he’d finished, he passed the comb to Aziraphale. “Keep it,” he said, then stood and stretched. He picked up his kilt and wrapped it around himself. “I need to go and do some work. D’you need anything while I’m gone?”

Aziraphale’s mind was blank. Aside from being put on the spot, he had no idea how to communicate anything he might like anyway. He stared, wide eyed and confused, before his gaze fell on the pile of clay tablets, and lump of unfired clay next to them. It was the only thing he’d seen that he had vaguely considered wanting to interact with in the sparse living quarters. He pointed to the lump of clay questioningly. 

“You want to use that? Go for it. Anything else?”

Aziraphale shrugged, hoping he’d think of a better response for later if he was asked again. A thought was forming. 

“Right then, see you in a bit. Obviously take care of yourself if you need milking before I get back, you know what to do. I’ll leave the door unlocked so you can put a jug outside if you need to. I don’t think I need to tell you not to try to leave, it’s far more dangerous out there. Safer for you in here, pretty sure you know that by now.”

Aziraphale nodded. He’d no inclination to try to leave - he knew there was no escape, and wandering the circles of Hell unaccompanied by his demon, he’d be terrorized on the spot. It didn’t bear thinking about. He huddled into his cushion. 

“Good Angel,” Crawly murmured, and fondled his hair briefly, then left without another word. 

* * *

Crawly sat down in the war room. Belial gave him a curt nod of greeting as the others took their places. Ligur, Stolas, Berith, Hastur, Beelzebub and Sathanas filed in, and laid out fresh slabs of soft clay to take notes. Crawly fiddled with the stylus, regarding his compatriots carefully. He didn’t trust a single one of them. 

“We have been discussing the best way to deploy you when we get the chance,” Berith opened with, eyeing up Crawly. “Our Lord Lucifer has told us about your - unique - abilities, although we have been advised to hold back on revealing the strength of our hand to the enemy thus far - we need to keep it under wraps, don’t give them any warning or any opportunity to prepare for it.”

Crawly nodded. “Like a secret super weapon you mean?”

Beelzebub nodded. “The problem is, if we can only deploy you once, then it has to be right at the very heart of things. We need to get you right into the center of Heaven to do the maximum damage.”

“So let me get taken prisoner next round.

Sathanas shook their head. “Won’t work - Heaven doesn’t take prisoners.”

“They don’t?”

“No. Those they don’t slaughter on the battlefield are executed immediately after - Heaven has no use for demons. Not like us getting some use from their angels. We need to find a way to break through, a concerted attack, and deliver you straight to the heart of things.”

“Then I do my thing?”

Hastur grinned and nodded. “Yeah, then you _do your thing.”_

“And afterwards?”

“All the hordes of Hell rush in while the angels are still picking up the pieces, while they’re distracted and confused.”

“I meant for me.”

“Depends if you survive it.”

“That’s what I was meaning.”

“Then you join in our glorious victory.”

Crawly resisted rolling his eyes. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Quite literally damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. He didn’t need to ask the consequences of not carrying out the orders. Carrot and stick - on one hand he was lavished with power and gifts to keep him sweet - the private cave, the angel slave, the relative freedom to do as he pleased, then over it all, the threat of what would happen if he stopped playing along. His title and trappings of finery were a gilded cage, nothing more. 

“So, Belial continued,” You’ll be following Hastur’s troops, they’re going to try to clear a path to get you through - spearheading with your squadrons, to deliver you to where we need you.”

“Right.”

The meeting droned on, Crawly nodded and made the right noises in the right places, as usual, and tried to think of alternatives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another demon, Garthax, visits Crawly, he admires Aziraphale and asks Crowley if he has “bred” him yet, Crawly tells him to mind his own business and clearly hates the newcomer. He tells him to speak his piece and leave. Garthax tells Crowley that he has now been given charge of Ligur’s old hellhound troops as well, and that he is required to come and review the troops. Crawly stands to put on his kilt and get ready, Garthax grabs Aziraphale’s hair to lift his head and look at him, commenting that he is pretty. 
> 
> Crawly reacts violently, pinning Garthax to the floor and warning him not to touch what’s his. He warns that next time Garthax touches his angel, he will kill him in a very specific way. He leaves Garthax with a minor injury and yells at him to get out. Crawly then very quietly checks that Aziraphale is ok, before he leaves. 
> 
> Aziraphale is amazed that his master defended him so fiercely, and is still confused why Crawly hasn’t “bred” him as clearly he is supposed to be doing. Crawly returns and relaxes, he gives Aziraphale his own cushion for comfort, and asks him to relax as well, stroking his hair like a pet. He tells him that he finds his companionship nice, and asks if it is better than being in the Sheds. Aziraphale nods. He reassures Aziraphale that he won’t allow anyone to share him. 
> 
> Crawly muses over how the new genitals and lust urges that Lucifer granted the demons has given him the urge to be territorial and protective. Having Aziraphale around makes him want to care for the angel, whose beauty fascinates him and makes him feel strange things. 
> 
> Aziraphale muses on how Crawly is talking to him, caring for him, and asking him about his comfort. It is different to anything he has experienced not only in Hell but also in Heaven, where he was used as a warrior in battle but nothing more. He sleeps, and wakes to Crawly looking softly at him, again telling him how pretty he is and how relaxed it makes him feel to have Aziraphale around. 
> 
> He milks Aziraphale, which the angel finds feels good, but both of them become aroused by the close contact. 
> 
> This time, Crawly rubs against Aziraphale’s back, gets carried away and ejaculates on his skin, but does not penetrate him at all. Aziraphale finds it feels exciting. Crawly washes him off gently and apologises for his behavior. He hugs Aziraphale, feeling conflicted, and Aziraphale decides to hug him back. He thinks about how Crawly kissed his skin when he was excited, and held his hand. Afterwards, Crawly is worried and asks if Aziraphale would rather milk himself in future (so Crawly doesn’t have to touch him if he doesn’t want that) but Aziraphale indicates that he is happy for Crawly to continue. 
> 
> Crawly asks if there is anything Aziraphale would like before he leaves to work. Aziraphale is confused by being asked such a question, but indicates that he would like permission to use the soft clay, and is given it. 
> 
> Crawly attends a war cabinet meeting with other senior demons. They discuss using Crawly as some kind of “secret weapon” that must be deployed as close to the center of Heaven as possible for maximum impact. Crawly says he can be taken prisoner next battle to get taken into Heaven, but the other demons point out that Heaven, unlike Hell, does not take prisoners, they simply kill all demons that are left behind after battle. So Crawly must be helped to get closer to Heaven in the coming battles to “do his thing”. Crawly hints that whatever that is, it’s not something that he will necessarily survive.


	4. No idle threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, surprised by how much free rein he’s being granted, begins to get creative, unfamiliar with the concept of free time to himself - something he’s never experienced before, even in Heaven. 
> 
> He and Crawly begin to forge a closer connection, and they discover an aspect of Crawly that not even the demon knew existed. Crawly is extra cautious to respect Aziraphale’s wishes, and they enjoy quiet closeness. 
> 
> Crawly is called away to battle, and in his absence, a visitor calls, with bad intentions. Crawly intervenes in the nick of time, and Aziraphale discovers another, entirely different side of Crawly that he’s not seen before either. 
> 
> A moment of close tenderness between angel and demon is abruptly broken when Crawly asks the wrong question without realising the effect it would have on Aziraphale. Distraught, he doesn’t know how to put things right again. Aziraphale is left traumatised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic description of violence, OC death, blood, gore, Naga Crowley, PTSD attack for Azirpahale, Skip to END NOTES for entire chapter summary without triggering detail

Aziraphale regarded the lump of clay in his hands, he tore off a chunk and played with it a little, kneading it between his fingers, rolling it out, smooshing it, then flattening it while he pondered on what to do with it. 

He had permission. 

He was allowed to do something with no benefit to his master, just for the sake of it, something to pass the time - such a concept was alien to him. In Heaven his every moment had been strictly divided into tasks - drilling, sword and armor maintenance, patrols, and of course battles, menial tasks. Having time to yourself wasn’t something that had ever occurred to him before. Leisure was a new one for him. 

Aziraphale flattened out the lump a bit more into a more regular shape, similar to the inscribed ones already fired, and picked up the stylus, pressing the reed into the clay in the familiar patterns. First he wrote “Aziraphale,” then “Crawly,” Both spelled phonetically, not his actual truename sigil. He couldn’t have drawn Crawly’s truename sigil anyway, as he didn’t know what it looked like. He looked at what he’d done, slightly alarmed, then smooshed both of them out, folding the clay over and smoothing it out again. He had the means to write, but had no idea what to write now he was allowed. 

There was no one he could send a message to. Keeping any kind of a log or diary of his activities seemed rather pointless as well, given how limited his range of activities was - besides, who would read it? Doubtless he’d get in trouble, or maybe even Crawly would get into trouble if such a thing were found. All he could do was create temporary ephemeral texts, then smooth them out again into nothingness. 

He doodled a little, drawing just one sharp edge of the stylus in a feathery light line across the clay, swirling random patterns. He drew the amphora, then a feather, even though his own wings couldn’t be called forth in this state - his angelic powers locked away from him by his surroundings. Then he began drawing a person. There was a face, arched eyebrows, an aquiline nose, a pouted lower lip and hard jaw, then slitted pupils in the eyes…

Aziraphale folded the clay over abruptly and kneaded it thoroughly for a few moments while he thought. Was he allowed to communicate with Crawly by writing? Would that anger him? Well, he’d given permission for Aziraphale to use the clay, and its primary purpose was communication, but was that permission for Aziraphale to use words? 

He glanced at the amphora in the corner again, and a thought occurred. He could test the waters in a safer way. Something simple. He drew another pair of amphorae. Under one he wrote “inside”, under the other “outside”. He tried to think how many milkings so far, and how it had been divided, then began to make tally marks next to each one. A simple record, perhaps Crawly would appreciate the thoughtfulness of his record keeping. He set the finished piece of clay next to the stack, then tore off another lump. 

Having nothing else he could think to write yet, instead he simply rolled and fiddled with the clay - “play” was another alien concept. But that’s what he was doing essentially - simple entertainment to occupy his mind and hands. He sculpted a small angel, then set about making some wings for him. Picking up the stylus, he began to add details to the feathers, gave the angel some robes and used his fingers to add folds in the cloth. He became absorbed in the task.

* * *

Another milking time came and went before Crawly returned, looking tired. He flung his kilt aside and collapsed down on the cushion with a sigh. “Grab me a bottle would you?” he asked. Aziraphale brought one over, a little heavier than it had been earlier. Crawly took it, removed the cork, and drank deeply. The refreshment seemed instantaneous, his eyes brightened and his skin seemed to become less dull. He recorked it and handed it back with a long, contented breath. “Just the thing, good stuff. Best. Better than the mixed up stuff you get allocated from the Sheds. Single source.”

Aziraphale held onto the amphora uncertainly, in case Crawly wanted more. The demon’s gaze fell on the lump of soft clay with the milk production tallies on it next to his baked messages. He picked it up with interest and made an amused huffing sound. “Well… that’s… helpful I suppose. Taking the initiative.” He looked up at Aziraphale, and then noticed the other lump of clay on the floor next to his cushion. Aziraphale felt a shot of icy cold panic as he realized that for one, he couldn’t grab at the small sculpture to squash it because his hands were full of amphora, and secondly, doing so might anger the demon. Instead he sat staring at the jug in his hands and waited to see what was going to happen to him. 

Crawly picked up the small, simple clay angel. It was faceless, but the detail on the rest was fascinating to him. Art was not something that either angels or demons had much time for; it required a level of creativity and imagination that was beyond them for the most part. He’d never seen anything like it. He turned it over in his hands carefully, trying not to smudge the detail. 

He regarded it in his fingertips, pondering whether he should fire it or not. He liked it, he wanted to keep it, but he didn’t know what other demons might think if they found it. He looked at Aziraphale. 

“Angel, don’t be scared. I like it, I don’t mind that you did it. But I’m going to have to destroy it, I’m sorry. We can’t have something like this lying around. The writing is one thing, but this… I don’t even know what this is, or how others would read into it.” He paused to lift Aziraphale’s chin again, to make him meet Crawly’s gaze. “Feel free to make more, but don’t forget to squash them again when you’ve finished, ok?” He handed the clay angel back. “There, put it back on the lump.”

Aziraphale smooshed the angel sculpture back into the main lump of clay with one hand, then offered up the amphora again questioningly. Crawly shook his head. “Not right now, thanks. Put it away again, then come here.”

He watched Aziraphale’s movements carefully, and when he returned and sat down on his cushion next to Crawly’s, picked up the comb and handed it to him. “Would you comb my hair out?”

Aziraphale nodded, and waited for Crawly to turn around. He took a small section and worked at it gently, careful not to tug too hard, afraid that hurting his owner would make him angry. Despite everything so far, the fear of anger over transgressions still lingered, he couldn’t help it. He worked slowly and methodically, while Crawly closed his eyes, leaned back a little, and after a while, a low, deep rumbling sound began reverberating from deep in his ribcage and throat.

The angel had never heard purring before. He had no frame of reference for it, although neither did Crawly. He didn’t know why his body was spontaneously doing what it was doing, but it felt good somehow, it seemed automatic. Aziraphale had stopped, worried that Crawly was growling in anger. He began to tremble.

Crawly turned to look at him, concerned. “You can carry on, it’s ok.” He took in Aziraphale’s disbelieving expression and shrugged. “I dunno what it is either, but it feels good. Go on.” He turned again and tipped his head back. With shaking hands, Aziraphale began again on the next section, and after a little while, the purring resumed.

“You’re good at that,” Crawly remarked, as Aziraphale set the comb down, having done all he felt he should. The demon’s red locks fell in shining waves down his back. Aziraphale reached out to stroke his fingers through them briefly, then sat back. Crawly sat up a little more, thoughtful. 

“... How are you with feathers?” He glanced at the angel over his shoulder. Aziraphale shrugged.

The demon shrugged his shoulders as well, and shook his wings out into existence. They unfurled, huge and glossy black, almost filing the space as he stretched them wide, then fluffed them with a shiver and relaxed again. He laid one out towards Aziraphale encouragingly. The angel swallowed, then reached out, and began with the familiar movements, smoothing separated barbs together again along each vane, reaching up to Crawly’s scapulars and rubbing at the oil patch there then smoothing it down over the feathers in turn. 

It was such a familiar sensation, albeit not one he’d been able to do for a while, unable as he was to bring his own wings forth, that he soon relaxed into the familiar routine on muscle memory alone. 

Presently, the purring started up again. 

Once he’d finished, Crawly stretched his wings out again, along with his arms, and yawned. “Milk then rest?” He suggested. Aziraphale nodded, his breasts feeling quite full again. He went and fetched the bowl and amphora, wondering what would happen this time. 

But Crawly seemed extra cautious after the events earlier. He remained kneeling to the side, despite any discomfort he might have felt. His touch was as gentle as ever, and he licked a splash of milk from his hand once he’d finished then withdrew the bowl and decanted it himself, leaving a bit behind to drink, then passed the empty bowl to Aziraphale to take and wash. He noticed that Crawly was still visibly aroused, but hadn’t done anything more than express Aziraphale’s milk. He felt slightly disappointed. 

Crawly glanced down at his stiff cock and bit his lip. He seemed deep in thought, then simply lay back and ignored it, fluffing his wings up around himself instead. When Aziraphale laid down on his cushion next to the demon, Crawly rolled over to gaze at him, then reached out to stroke his hair, his hand lingering, then withdrew, and instead reached out one enormous wing and laid it over them both, fanning out his primaries and secondaries to cover more area. 

Aziraphale felt comforted, and when he realized that his owner wasn’t intending to do anything more, allowed himself to sleep. As he drifted off, he could swear he could hear Crawly purring again.

* * *

They were woken again some time later by a knock at the door, at least not loud and urgent this time, but polite. 

“My lord?”

“WHAT?”

“It’s time.”

“Fine. On my way.”

Crawly grunted and stretched, flapped his wings once then folded them and tucked them away on the ethereal plane. He donned his kilt, then greaves and breastplate, belt with scabbard and sword, then decanted some milk into the gourds on the belt, then chugged a bit from the jug for good measure. 

“You’ll have to deal with it yourself for a while, don’t forget to put half outside the door. Hopefully I’ll be back later.” Crawly stroked Aziraphale’s hair, then left again. 

Aziraphale placed his hand on the hollow shape left where Crawly had been sleeping, feeling the warmth of his body there. A small black feather lay on the floor, so he picked it up and held it to his nose smelling the familiar safe scent of the demon on it. He tucked it underneath his cushion. 

Glancing around the place, he decided to get some kind of routine going. First he stretched out, then fetched the bowl and expressed some milk, decanted it and put a jug outside the door, washed the bowl and set it to dry. Then he made a note on the soft clay tablet.

Next he fluffed the cushions up, and exercised a bit - walking circles at first and then jogging a bit and doing more stretches. Then he washed, still not brave enough to use the cleansing liquids without permission, but the water was good enough. He dried off and fiddled with the clay for a while. This time he sculpted a small faceless demon, with large beautiful wings. The figure was slender and kilted, with long ropes of hair curling down its back. 

He smiled at the little clay figure for a while, refining it a bit more, and then finally, regretfully, he squashed it back into a ball again. A thought occurred to him and he withdrew the feather from under his cushion, then pressed it into the clay, leaving a perfect imprint. He set that aside, it was far more innocuous than the figurines, so he leaned it against the larger lump of clay. That way it wasn’t obvious - he could show Crawly when he came back, or if someone else came, a nudge of a foot would be enough to shove it into the main clay lump again and obliterate it.    
  
Casting an eye around the cave, noting the dust and grit on the floor in places, he wished he had something he could use as a brush to tidy up and keep the place clean. He thought on it as he fiddled with another lump of clay. Crawly  _ had  _ asked him if there was anything else he wanted, and he hadn’t been angry about the record keeping of the milk. 

Aziraphale flattened out the new lump, and tentatively wrote a couple of things with careful presses of the stylus:

_ ‘Am I permitted to use the cleansing liquids in the washing room?’ _

_ ‘May I have a brush to sweep the floor?’ _

He left it at that. In case such things were also risky for others to see, he leaned that piece against the main lump as well, text side in, so that a swift kick would instantly mash it into the clump and destroy its legibility if needed. 

This done, he did some more gentle exercise to pass the time.

* * *

A couple of milkings later, there was a knock at the door. Aziraphale hesitated. Crawly wouldn’t knock. Aziraphale wasn’t allowed to speak to answer. His heart began to hammer in his chest and he broke out in a cold sweat of anxiety. He hastily smashed the clay lumps together then approached the door and opened it. 

Garthax stood there. He gave Aziraphale a strange look that the angel couldn’t decipher, and looked him up and down. Aziraphale realized all of a sudden that he shouldn’t be standing, and dropped to all fours, staring resolutely at the floor, trying to look as submissive as possible. 

The demon stepped closer and nudged Aziraphale’s thigh with his foot. Unsure what to do, Aziraphale remained still and hoped for the best, or at least for further instructions.

“Your owner isn’t here,” Garthax said. It wasn’t a question. He knew. He knew Aziraphale would be alone. “...And it’s not like you can tell him anything,” he leered, bending low, and grabbing a fistful of the angel’s hair roughly. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes tight, he went limp, he tried not to cry in fear. Garthax yanked him by the hair and dragged him further into the cave, kicking the door shut behind him. He let go of Aziraphale, making him fall back onto the floor, and stood over him. He hadn’t bothered with any kind of clothing, and his cock stood erect and gruesome. 

“Has he broken you in yet? Got you knocked up? Can’t see any bruises on you. What the fuck is wrong with him? You’re wasted on that shithead.” Garthax dropped to all fours and crawled over Aziraphale, pinning him to the ground. “Can’t let a pretty thing like you go to waste can we?”

There was a roar of rage and Garthax was suddenly gone from on top of Aziraphale. Crawly had lifted him and thrown him against the wall so hard that the rock cracked - the demon lay at the bottom of it, bones bent at unnatural angles, stunned. Crawly was incandescent with rage. Gleaming black and red scales flecked his body, his canines were tripled in length, and his nails were savage claws. His wings were out, mantled defensively around him, and a pair of ridged horns curled from his hairline, sweeping back to wickedly sharp points. He started off stalking toward the prone demon, but as he got closer, his lower half morphed into a monstrous serpentine form, leaving only his upper body at the loosest possible description of humanoid in shape. 

“I  _ warned  _ you…” Crawly was growling. “Do you take me for an idiot? That I’d leave my door unlocked but  _ not warded?  _ You think I couldn’t tell the very moment you crossed my threshold? I  _ told  _ you that angel is  _ MINE. _ ” 

Crawly was terrifying. He had clearly come straight from battle, presumably miracling himself home the moment he felt the ward alert. He was already bloodied and injured, but his anger had pushed him beyond mere mechanical battle maneuvers and straight into downright feral rage. He’d lost control of his corporation and regressed into his more natural demonic form - part serpent, part humanoid, all monster. 

Garthax writhed on the floor, screaming in pain at the multiple broken bones - his lower leg was snapped in two and the tibia protruded through the skin in a jagged bloody shard. Crawly grabbed at the dangling foot and ripped it clean off, flinging it aside. 

“I told you I’d rend the flesh from your bones and feed it to the Hellhounds. Did you think I’m not a demon of my word? You think I make  _ idle threatsssssss?” _ Crawly hissed, slithering closer. He sank his claws into Garthax’s shoulder, ripping through the muscle, and then tore downwards sharply, tearing his bicep clean away from the bone, continuing on down the forearm, leaving the bloody flesh hanging in tattered shreds dangling from his wrist. 

Garthax’s screams were almost deafening. Aziraphale quailed and cowered. He knew demons were savage, but hadn’t seen this side of his master before. He was utterly terrified, but also incredulous that Crawly would be doing this in defense of  _ him _ . 

Next, Crawly’s razor sharp claws sank into the lesser demon’s chest below each collarbone, piercing his pectorals, one on each side. He stared straight into Garthax’s terrified eyes with a bloodthirsty grin for a moment, before suddenly raking both sets of claws downwards in one swift motion that tore the flesh from the other demon’s chest, and kept going until his guts spilled out onto the floor in grisly glistening ropes and gouts of scarlet blood.

Garthax couldn’t scream any more. His diaphragm was gone, his lungs dangled from his exposed ribcage, useless, his black heart thundering against his ribs - obscenely visible. Crawly still wasn’t finished. He bit into the top of the demon’s thigh with his sharp teeth, and wrenched downwards, ripping the muscle away there as well, while clawing at the other. 

Aziraphale saw in slow motion the moment that Garthax’s heart stopped beating.

“IMP!” Crawly screamed out of the doorway. A moment later a junior imp scuttled in. It paused, horrified, at the sight before it. 

“Get a few more, clean this shit up, feed it to the Hellhounds. He was executed for insubordination.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the imp stammered, and fled to get backup to assist. Crawly turned to look for Aziraphale, then stopped, eyes wide in horror. 

“Oh fuck…” he whispered hoarsely. “Fuck, shit no… no. Nonononono…” He looked down at himself, realizing how terrifying he was to the whimpering angel. He tried to concentrate, to push his disobedient body back into a more pleasing shape, but his blood was up, he was too high on adrenaline to get complete control. 

“Get in the washroom, you don’t have to look, They’ll take it all away - go. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Aziraphale fled, he sat under the comfort of the falling water, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking. He felt ashamed somehow. He was a warrior, he’d seen death dealt to so many, he’d done it himself, but never like that. It was mechanical slash and stab, fast and efficient - despatch one, deal with the next, don’t let them get you. He’d never seen someone linger over it and torture, never seen such wanton violence, taking pleasure in destroying so completely, so savagely. A battlefield was about rapid death-dealing, not this. Never this.

He heard some imps returning, Crawly giving orders, then telling them not to disturb him. He slithered to the washroom, and miracled a door to shut out the sight and sound from the room beyond. He curled up his tail, and sank down next to Aziraphale in the water stream. He’d only managed to banish his wings so far.

“Angel, did he hurt you? What did he do?”

Aziraphale shook his head. Crawly looked skeptical. “Did he touch you?”

Aziraphale nodded, he hesitated, then reached up and grabbed his own hair and yanked at it. Crawly growled. “He was about to hurt you worse.”

The angel nodded, staring at his knees. 

“He won’t ever hurt you again.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Sorry you had to see me like this. I thought I was too late. I can’t seem to change back yet, still too wound up.” His coils shifted awkwardly, and he stared down at his claws lying on black scales - both smeared with blood. Not to mention several injuries from before he had arrived straight from battle. 

“I’d better clean up. Can you shift over? I need the water.”

The angel hastily scooted to one side, and Crawly slithered under the falling water, the streams of which immediately turned red as it swirled away through the cracks in the floor. He immersed his entire head under the flow, closed his eyes and swayed gently. His claws began to recede along with his horns. Then his lower half shifted back, and he was just Crawly once more. All bones and angles, pale and freckled, scarred, bruised, cut. Once other people’s blood was washed from his body, only his own remained, trickling over his skin with the water in scarlet runnels. 

Aziraphale remembered the bottle that the demon had used last time he came home injured, and reached out to pick it up and hold it out for Crawly. He opened his eyes and smiled, taking the bottle, and using the liquid to cleanse his body and wounds completely. He then sat under the water much as Aziraphale had done, just letting the water flow over him, head tipped back and resting on the hard rock wall, hands in his lap. After a short while, he shifted sideways out of the water flow.

Crawly looked exhausted. Aziraphale moved closer, and sat down next to him, skin just barely touching. The demon tipped his head sideways to regard his angel with a tired smile, then rested a hand on his thick thigh, then his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and took a deep breath. 

“You relax me, y’know that?”

Aziraphale considered the open cuts on his master’s body, and also that there were several imps outside in the main room cleaning up the devastation. He looked down at his breasts, then reached up and began to massage them. Crawly opened his eyes at the movement and looked briefly puzzled. After a few moments, the milk began to flow. Aziraphale caught some in his cupped hand, then carefully held it over a deep cut on Crawly’s thigh, and let the liquid trickle over it, stemming the flow of blood. 

Understanding, the demon straightened up, and began to move himself in such a way as to make his injuries accessible as Aziraphale tended to him with careful hands and a light touch. When he’d finished, Crawly cupped his hands under the angel’s breast to catch some as it was expressed, and brought it to his mouth to drink. When he went to repeat the action, Aziraphale straightened up a little, stuck his chest out, and gently guided Crawly’s hands to his breast. 

The demon looked confused, and made eye contact with Aziraphale, seeking clarification. “You don’t mind?” Aziraphale shook his head. Crawly drew a deep breath and shifted closer, then bent his head and took a nipple between his lips. 

He drew it a little further into his mouth and began to suck, hands gently kneading at the flesh around the areola as he did, tasting the sweet creamy milk jetting straight to his tongue. Aziraphale sighed and visibly relaxed. The sensation was incredible, like nothing he’d ever experienced. His anxiety seemed to evaporate in that moment and a tingling warmth filled his body. 

As the hindmilk tapered out from the right breast, Crawly switched to the left. Aziraphale reached up to gently cup his head, sinking his fingers into his wet hair. The demon looked utterly content, nuzzling into his pliant flesh. As the hindmilk petered out in that one as well, he let go, and laid back, resting his head across Aziraphale’s thighs, his own hips down under the running water. 

Crawly gazed up at Aziraphale with a tender expression and blinked slowly. The milk had revived him from his battle weariness and stresses, now he was completely at ease. His voice was quiet and soft.

“What’s your name?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes flew wide in fear, and he withdrew. Crawly rolled off his lap in confusion as the angel scuttled backwards into the far corner and huddled up, tucked his head into his arms and began to shake. 

“Hey… hey, what’s up? Angel…?” Crawly moved closer on all fours. “Hey Angel, don’t cry, what’s wrong?” He reached out to touch Aziraphale’s knee, and the angel almost shrieked in terror, curling tighter, shaking like a leaf. Crawly immediately backed off. 

“Ok, ok… you’re ok. Not touching you. I’m sorry. Whatever it was, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Here…” He snapped up a big fluffy towel-like cloth again, larger than before, and draped it over Aziraphale. “Wrap up, you can dry off. I’ll go and see if they’re finished out there yet.”

He snapped up another cloth to dry himself, then left to check the other room. Aziraphale shivered in the corner, wrapped up in the towel completely, his tears turning to hitched breaths and brief sobs, then eventually a wrung-out silence. 

Crawly had backed off, hadn’t punished him, and left to give him space. 

But still he was scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale plays with the clay and ponders what to do with it. It’s pointless keeping a diary or writing a letter, as there’s nothing to make note of, and no one to send a message to, besides he may get in trouble for that. He draws a little then smooths out the images. Next he decides to test what communication he is allowed by making a tally of milk output for his master. He also sculpts a small faceless angel. Crawly returns and is impressed by Aziraphale’s initiative with the milk record. He is delighted by the small angel sculpture as well, but thinks it too risky to keep, and reluctantly has Aziraphale smooth it back into the clay lump in case it’s discovered. He reassures Aziraphale that he likes it, but warns him to destroy such things after making them lest other demons discover them, to be safe. 
> 
> Crawly asks Aziraphale to comb his hair, and then preen his wings. They both discover that Crawly can purr when so relaxed. He milks Aziraphale again but tries to remain professional and distanced. He still shows some sign of arousal, but ignores it completely. He lies down to sleep, Aziraphale is next to him, and Crawly wraps them both in his wings while they rest. 
> 
> Crawly wakes and leaves for battle again, Aziraphale exercises and occupies himself, making more clay things, including a message for Crawly, to ask him for cleaning materials, in response to Crawly’s previous question about if he wanted anything. 
> 
> A knock at the door surprises him, so Aziraphale quickly destroys the clay creations and answers it. It’s Garthax, who knows that Crawly is away, he grabs Aziraphale, clearly meaning to molest him, but doesn’t get the chance. Crawly appears, furious and in monstrous part snake form. He flings Garthax against the wall, points out that he did not make an idle threat last time, and proceeds to kill Garthax in an extremely gruesome way as he had described previously as Azirpahale watches on in horror. 
> 
> Crawly realises how horrific he must look, and how he must have terrified his angel, so tells him to go to the washroom, he is mortified. He sets imps to cleaning up the mess and removing the corpse, then joins Aziraphale in the washroom. He apologises and explains the actions he had to take to protect Aziraphale from almost certain rape. He checks if his angel is unhurt, and slowly relaxes back into his normal humanoid form, washing off the mess. 
> 
> Crawly had returned straight from battle after the ward he placed on his door alerted him that Garthax had crossed his threshold so is still injured from battle. Aziraphale takes the initiative to milk himself and heal his master’s injuries. He then offers Crawly his breast to drink from directly to heal himself from the inside as well, and they enjoy the closeness together. 
> 
> Feeling relaxed, Crawly asks Aziraphale his name, not knowing that it is the very worst PTSD trigger for the angel. Aziraphale has a complete meltdown and huddles in the corner, terrified, having flashbacks to the Sheds and what he saw happen there to another angel who responded to the question “what’s your name?” Crawly is shocked by his reaction and visibly upset that he’s caused Aziraphale such distress. He reassures him vocally and gives him space.


End file.
